


Extraordinary Machine

by spacestationtrustfund



Series: angry sharpie [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Body Horror, D/s, Deep pressure, HYDRA Trash Party, Identity, Identity Porn, M/M, Objectification, Rape Fantasy, Stone partner, Transhumanism, Trauma, weird extended metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25498984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: “I’m not going to tell you to do something you don’t want to do,” Steve said.“Sure you are,” Bucky said. “How else would I do anything?”AKA New York’s hottest club is... the Staaaar-Spangled Man with a Plaaaaan!
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: angry sharpie [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784188
Comments: 25
Kudos: 139
Collections: spacestationtrustfund sampler





	Extraordinary Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Take note of the "rape fantasy" tag; it's there for a reason. See end notes for more detailed content warnings. Title from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQk0xTwZumo), which is also kind of the encapsulating soundtrack for the entire series.
> 
> Happy second anniversary to this series, I guess? Have some very weird porn.

Where exactly do you put your hands on someone who hurts everywhere?  
Charles D'Ambrosio

//

"I just don't think it's fair," Steve said.

Bucky sighed. They'd had this conversation before, except then it had been about—eating, or trauma, or nightmares, or whatever else. "That's not how it works," he said.

"I know that's not how it works. That doesn't mean I have to like it."

"No, but if only one of us is going to like this, then," Bucky said, and then stopped. He'd been meaning to say, Then it might as well be you, but he figured Steve probably wouldn't take too kindly to that sort of statement.

He was right: Steve was making that face that meant he was gearing up to throw a real fit about something, so Bucky added quickly, before he could really wind himself up, "Hey, it's okay, it's not like I don't enjoy that part. I mean, you already know I'd be into whatever you wanted to do to me."

"I know, Bucky," said Steve. "That's the problem, okay?"

"What, because you thi—" Bucky stopped. "Oh," he said, and snorted. "Well, you're the only one of us who has a problem with that."

So that was where they were at these days.

//

Waking up in a bed wasn’t really something he was comfortable with, even if he was used to it by now. He’d been comfortable with a hell of a lot of things that weren’t okay—Steve had been real clear on that. And of course he’d been _accustomed to_ all manners of things.

It was nice to be with Steve, though.

Steve said, “Ugh,” and rolled over onto his side. He kicked Bucky’s leg lightly. “How’s your back?”

“Pretty sore,” Bucky said. “I mean, you had to know that’d happen, putting something like me in a bed.”

“Sure,” Steve agreed. “You want me to grab the Ben-Gay?"

"No one's called it that in a hundred years."

"Copacetic," Steve said, unimpressed. "Shove over, then.”

Massages tended to make him feel like he was going to jitter out of his skin, but they had workarounds. Bucky obediently flopped onto his front, so Steve could land all two-hundred-something pounds on his back and press Bucky into the mattress. “Could you,” Bucky said, which was an accomplishment in and of itself, what with the way his face was all smushed into the pillow.

“Like this?”

Steve’s hand found the back of his neck and held on. It was kind of stupid, but—it worked. Bucky could feel the tension draining from his muscles as he relaxed. “Thank you,” he said, or at least mumbled something that sounded like it, which was good enough.

The weight was nice. It would’ve been nicer if the bed hadn’t been so yielding. The yoga mats Steve had put between the mattress and the sheet helped, but the bed still dipped uncomfortably. “Can we,” said Bucky, and then made an inarticulate noise, because Steve had pulled on his hair. "Steve, please," he said.

“Always so picky,” Steve said, but it didn’t mean anything; Bucky knew Steve cared more about his comfort than anything, which was still a weird sort of thing to think about. Proper maintenance, Steve had said.

Bucky lifted his head. "Please, it's not—"

Steve huffed. "Did I tell you to beg?"

"Sorry—"

"You should be. You know how to ask for something," Steve said. He grabbed Bucky's hair and dragged his head back—Bucky's mouth hung open, jaw slack. He was drooling a little; he couldn't help it. Steve slapped him with his free hand, hard. It stung, and Bucky's stomach hitched pleasantly. "Now. Tell me what you need."

"The floor," Bucky said, "Steve, please—"

So they moved to the floor. Bucky turned his head to the side when Steve got on top of him, so he wouldn’t break his nose or something equally stupid. His cheek still felt hot and tingly where Steve had hit him.

“You remember those stories in Black Mask?” Steve said. He didn’t wait for an answer, and Bucky didn't think he could give one anyway. “The ones about the ancient Egyptians leaving curses on things and shaving their eyebrows and haunting the pyramids and whatnot. Well, I don’t know if you remember—” He paused, so Bucky could make a huffy noise of indignation. “—but they apparently slept on beds that were made of stone, with carved stone for pillows.”

Bucky made a sympathetic sound. The floorboards were uneven, that was something to focus on—he could feel the draft leaking in through the poorly adhered wall panels. Even with the thermostat on high, the floor was cold, but the warmth from the radiator in the bedroom was heating up his right leg something crazy.

“Anyway,” Steve said, “the Egyptians had the right idea, sleeping on stone beds. I’d have you sleep on the table if it wasn’t where we have to eat.”

The rule was no weapons at the table, of course.

Bucky shut his eyes and focused on breathing. It was difficult, with Steve on top of him—he had to make a real effort. He thought, if this went on for much longer, he’d dissolve and Steve would have to vacuum him up; he’d seep through the cracks in the floor. He felt liquid and pliable, like rubber warmed in the sun. Steve could just pick him up and pour him into a box, if he wanted. Steve could pour him right down the drain.

They'd tried to bring him back to life, but it hadn't worked well—sometimes he felt like there was something inside of him still rotting, slowly decaying, and one day it'd reach the top layer of skin and pieces of him would just start falling off onto the ground with soft plopping noises, blackened and dead. Sometimes he could look in the mirror and see the edges where the pieces had been put back together—not the sutures or the stitches, not quite—and he thought, he hoped it happened while he was inside the apartment, because as bad as it would be for Steve to have to clean up that sort of mess all over the floor, at least it would be contained. HYDRA had wanted him to be a robot, but he knew he wasn’t a robot; he was a zombie if he was anything, a high-functioning corpse.

He could hear his heartbeat, in the floorboards and in the pulse in his throat and skull and chest. He had to concentrate, if he wanted to hear Steve’s. He thought, it’d be romantic if their heartbeats aligned and he dissolved quietly into Steve's heart muscle—he could crawl inside Steve's chest, a small thing nestled between his lungs—but then he dismissed the thought. That wasn’t how anything worked.

He zoned out for a while, thinking about Steve pouring him into various containers—he wasn’t sure how long, but he came to when Steve shifted a little. “Sorry. Arm’s asleep,” Steve said. Bucky could feel his grimace against the back of his neck; he squirmed around a bit, trying to get into a better position for Steve. “Hey, worm,” Steve said, amused. “You ready to get up?”

It wasn’t like Bucky was going to answer that question, but he appreciated that Steve always asked it, anyway.

//

It wasn’t like they didn’t have problems—they had all sorts of problems.

It had started when Steve had thanked him, of all things. Bucky had jerked him off while explaining that they needed to buy more coffee because they were running low, and Steve had gasped out something about adding it to the list while coming all over Bucky's shirt, which was really Steve's shirt, and Bucky had laughed at him—but Steve had just kissed his face and said, Thank you, and—

Bucky squirmed away. "Don't," he said. It came out thin and reedy, like he was speaking through a wind tunnel.

Steve froze. He lifted his hands, slowly. "Okay. Don't what?"

"Don't _thank_ me." It ruined the whole experience if Bucky wasn't expecting it.

"Well, I don't want to tell you did a terrible job," Steve protested. "I mean—all evidence to the contrary."

"Just don't be _nice_ ," said Bucky. "Hell. Where did you get the impression I want you to tell me I'm doing a good job? I've got eyes." His face didn't cooperate when he tried to move it, but he rolled his eyes down to look pointedly at the mess on his shirt. "I know when I'm doing something right."

That wasn't true. Well, not always, at least. But it was getting better, really—

"You can be nice sometimes," Bucky relented. "I mean, I guess it doesn't really matter what you say. But I'm not the main attraction here." He put his left hand on Steve's thigh, deliberately. "You're the show-stopper."

"Yeah, I sure stopped the show," said Steve. "Explain it to me like you think I’m stupid."

“Oh, so how I normally do?” Bucky said. “Well, I guess—you know how you can say pretty much anything to a dog if you’re using the right voice, and the dog will go crazy for it? I’m like that, but for you. I mean, well, you could probably do pretty much anything to me, and I would like it because it’s you, doing something to me. I’m not particularly going to mind what that thing ends up being, so long as you’re the one doing it, and you keep on doing it. But it's not about _me_ , see? It's about you. A dog trainer can use the same technique on a thousand dogs, but there's only one him. All dogs are kind of the same, but there's only one you.”

He figured it was sort of the same as Steve’s being Captain America, going out and doing things so people would see him doing things and think about Captain America being a force for good in the world. The point wasn't that it was Steve doing it, it was that Captain America was showing up. Or maybe it was nothing like that, he didn’t know; he’d never been Captain America. But then again, neither had Steve, not really.

It was nice to have a purpose, and to be reminded of it.

Bucky shrugged. “People do it all the time,” he said. “What do you think ‘I’m yours’ means otherwise? I _belong_ to you, of course you can do anything to me. In fact, I'd rather you do.”

Steve looked stricken. “But that’s not how I feel,” he said, which meant It’s not fair.

“Well, I do plenty of things for you that you don’t do for me,” Bucky said. Before Steve could argue, he added, “Not that you _wouldn’t_ , but that you _don’t_. I mean, unless you want me to slap you around and call you names.”

Steve flushed—that was interesting—but he made the hand motion telling Bucky to keep talking.

“I could slap you around some,” said Bucky. Steve’s reaction meant there was a pretty solid chance of them having done it before, or at least Steve had thought about it a lot. “If you’d like that. You’d just have to tell me to do it, I could do it, no problem there. But it’s not something I’m particularly interested in—I mean, if it’s something you want, I can do it. But it’s not something _I_ want.”

“I’m not going to tell you to do something you don’t want to do,” Steve said.

“Sure you are,” Bucky said. “How else would I do anything?”

//

It hadn’t started out well, when Bucky had first tried to tell him. Back then, at least, when he still thought of himself as in black and white, like the old newsreels of Bucky Barnes from the museum—the arm was the only part of him that was really in color.

But Steve had asked, so Bucky had to tell him. Steve hadn’t figured that trick out yet.

“You won’t like it,” Bucky had warned him.

“I order you to tell me,” Steve had said, in his normal kind of goofy voice, and Bucky had snorted.

“You know that’s not how it works.”

“You want me to be Captain America?”

Bucky had shaken his head.

“You liked the uniform, though,” Steve had said, mulish. He’d scrunched up his nose. “Well, _Bucky_ did.”

“Aw, quit sweet-talkin’ me,” Bucky had said. “Wrapping paper is nice, but you wouldn’t think someone’s only getting the wrapping paper instead of the gift, would you? Think of it like this: you’re physically attracted to the body I’m in, right?” Steve had nodded, wary. “Well, it’s the exact opposite of that.”

“What, you think I’m not—attracted to—you as a _person_ , instead of just physically?” Steve had winced. “Bad phrasing. You know what I mean.”

“Do you think the wrapping paper’s better than the thing inside it?”

Steve had made a face, at that. “You want me to tear you open? Huh? Is that it?”

And then things had gone downhill from there.

But everything was a lot better, now.

//

It was all uphill from now on, but at least nobody was carrying any boulders. Well, except for Captain America, but that didn’t count.

So: they were in the main room, with the couch. It had taken Bucky a while to get used to sitting on the couch, and even then it still made him uncomfortable.

Steve was still—and always—trying to get him to explain things. And so here he was, trying to explain things.

“I can't go back to the person I was before everything happened, and I don't want to,” Bucky said. “I don't want to be that person. I want to figure out how to be the person I am now. But the problem is that you don’t think that’s possible. Instead of solving the Rubik's cube, you take the stickers off and put them in the proper places. And that’s a problem. And I know you’re not satisfied, and I want to make things good for you, even if that’s—compromising what I want, or something.” He tried to focus on looking at Steve, instead of just staring vaguely off into the distance, even though he knew Steve probably wouldn’t mind if he couldn’t make eye contact. Steve was patient that way. “I mean, I know you want to fuck me. You don’t have to pretend you don’t.”

He hadn’t been expecting Steve to react much, but Steve got a strange look on his face. Bucky said, quickly, “You— I mean, is that something you’d want?”

“Well, of course I want to fuck you,” Steve said. He looked like he was trying not to flinch. He looked like Bucky was pressing on a bruised organ. “I didn’t think that was on the table, though.”

Bucky shrugged, or at least moved one of his shoulders. “I don’t know, Steve, it depends on how you define fucking. I don’t think it usually involves tables, but hey, I have brain damage.”

“You think having brain damage is sex? I didn’t realize you’d been having sex for seventy years or so,” Steve said.

“Well, you weren’t there,” Bucky said. This was Steve’s finger on the pulse of what he’d been wanting to talk about, but—it would be so easy to screw it up.

Steve made the hand-waving motion that meant Keep going.

“I mean, you already know they—did things to me. Used me. Fucked me, whatever you want to call it. I guess you’d call it rape.”

“Oh, you guess?”

“Well,” Bucky said. “Brain damage, remember.”

“Yeah, I’ll forgive you for being so stupid,” Steve said. “So they raped you. I knew that already. You want me to fix it with my dick? Sorry to break it to you, but that’s not gonna work.”

Bucky succeeded at rolling his eyes on the first try, which felt pretty great. “I know it’s pointless,” he said. “I don’t even know why I bother.”

“Because you’re mine, obviously,” Steve said.

Ugh. “You’ll kill the mood with all this sappy bullshit,” Bucky complained.

“Can we at least go to the bedroom?” Steve said. “Since we’re going to have sex, and all.”

“Sure,” said Bucky. It was almost funny. He followed Steve into the bedroom, half expecting Steve to actually strip, but instead Steve just flopped down on the bed with his arms folded over his chest.

Bucky hesitated in the doorway, and Steve gave him a look. “Well? I can’t fuck you if you’re all the way over there. I don’t have telekinesis.”

“Then what’s even the point?”

“Hey, shut up,” Steve said. “You want me to fuck you or not? Get over here.”

Bucky crawled over to lie down next to Steve, not touching. “You’d come up with something,” he said, even though Steve hadn’t told him he could talk yet.

“Yeah, we can improvise,” Steve said. “I’m gonna need some parameters here. What’s the problem?”

That was exactly what Bucky didn’t know how to explain. “You read the file,” he said. “What they did to me.”

“So you’re upset because they fucked you, and I can’t?” Steve said. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you. You’re upset because I didn’t tell them they could? Because I know you didn’t—hell.”

Steve turned his face away, for a moment. Bucky held very still, trying not to move a muscle, until eventually Steve turned back.

“I’d want to watch,” Steve said.

It took Bucky a moment to find the right words—he felt like his skin was electric, lit up, with how much he wanted Steve to keep talking. “That was sort of what I was thinking,” he said. “I had a whole situation in mind, you know, sort of how you came up with those stories when we were kids, Arabella being captured by pirates, or the evil Sheikh or something.”

Steve kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “Explain the situation,” he said.

“Well, I used to think about you rescuing me,” Bucky said, which was—a bit of a live wire, so he had to steer the conversation away from there. “But then I thought—you know, you burst in while they’re—using me, and you kill everyone.”

“And?”

“And then you fuck me, obviously,” Bucky said. “But you’re mad about it, so you’re not going to be nice, you hate that I’m all messy and used, and—”

Ruined, that was the word he was looking for. But there was no way he’d be able to say it.

“I can work with that,” Steve said. He rolled over and opened the nightstand drawer, rummaging around, then pulled out something—Bucky couldn’t see what it was, but he could hear when Steve popped the cap off, and he could smell the sharp pungency of it in the back of his mouth. “Here,” Steve said, and then the tip of the marker pressed against the side of Bucky’s throat. “Tip your head back a bit,” Steve said. “Yeah, there you go. That’s perfect.”

“Well, I figured you’d use a knife,” Bucky said. His voice sounded thin even to him.

Steve snorted. “You’re already damaged enough,” he said. “What am I writing?”

“It’s not like I want you to stick a fucking fridge magnet on me that says ‘property of Steve Rogers,’” Bucky said. “That’d be stupid. Besides, it wouldn’t even work.” He meant that it wouldn’t stick to the arm.

“TALKS BACK,” Steve said, jabbing the marker into the dip right below Bucky’s ear. “WON’T SHUT UP.”

“Ruined,” Bucky said.

He could hear Steve’s breath catch, but he wasn’t looking at him, so he didn’t know if that was—if it was good, or something else. Steve was quiet for a moment, tracing the marker lightly along Bucky’s jaw, while Bucky determinedly kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

Finally, Steve said, “I should’ve tattooed it on your face or something, since you’re so easy for it. Or right above your ass, so everyone would know even if they didn’t want to look at your face. OPEN FOR BUSINESS. You know. EVERYONE WELCOME.”

It was an idea all right. Bucky’s skin couldn’t hold ink; they’d tried. Well, the Soviets had tried; he didn’t remember if HYDRA had done anything. They’d probably thought about it, the same way a pilot might paint a lady on the nose of his plane. Or maybe the way someone might personalize a gun.

“Okay, fine, you don’t kill everyone,” said Bucky. “You storm in while they’re—fucking me, and you tell ’em to line up with their backs to the wall. Half of ’em probably still have their dicks out, at that point.”

“And what're _you_ doing, while I’m showing off?”

“What d’you think I’m doing, idiot? I’m not moving.”

“So, what, I just take you right there? Is everyone still watching? I know you think I’m swell, but my dick’s not _that_ impressive.”

“Sure it is,” Bucky said. “You’re Captain America.”

Steve winced. That was pushing a line, Bucky knew. Probably he shouldn’t have said it—he thought, maybe Steve was going to punish him for it, but Steve’s punishments were usually that he wouldn’t entertain Bucky’s dumbshit notions, which was the worst possible thing. He could’ve handled anything else, but not that.

He could picture it though. Steve would make a big showy entrance, bursting into the room just as one of the faceless goons was shooting his load in Bucky's ass, smacking him to get him to tense up. Everyone was pretty focused on the centrepiece, and didn't notice right away that they were dead—Bucky couldn't see, since he was bent over holding onto his ankles with his ass in the air, and he was woozy from the blood rushing to his head anyway, but he could feel—something in the room had changed, and then the guy pulled out and Bucky obediently went down to his knees, head spinning. He could feel the come trickling down the backs of his thighs, warm and sticky.

Of course he didn't recognize Steve, but that didn't matter: Steve had a gun. Steve also had a cell phone, which he held up demonstrably: a big red button, like something out of a spy movie. Steve said, You wanna bet your Nazi asses against the super-serum? and of course they didn't, so they lined up against the wall when he told them to.

Bucky was still on his knees. The floor was concrete, cold and filthy with grime and semen and a bit of his own blood from where they'd hit him. He still couldn't see who was in the room.

It didn't really matter though.

Steve came over and nudged Bucky's hip with his boot. Bucky shuddered, and Steve said, So I see you fellas found something that belongs to me.

Nobody said anything, because they weren't stupid. Steve held the detonator in one hand and undid his flys with the other. He slapped Bucky's ass, hard, and Bucky obediently stuck his ass in the air so Steve wouldn't have to crouch down to fuck him.

How many of you came in him? said Steve. Bucky thought, he must be looking at his asshole, red and swollen and bruised. Bucky had lost count, but Steve didn't actually want an answer anyway; Steve said, I know he needs it but I didn't think he'd stoop this low.

The head of Steve's cock brushed against Bucky's hole, and he tensed up automatically. Steve laughed. Slut, Steve said. But don't worry, there's enough come in you that it shouldn't even hurt, helpful of them really to stretch you open for me.

Bucky wasn't supposed to make a sound, so he didn't. He wanted to, he thought—he wanted to say something, but—

I'll give you what you need, Steve said, and pushed his cock inside Bucky.

It felt like he was being split open. It felt like someone had socked him right on a sore tooth. Steve's cock slid in easily enough—Bucky was still slippery with come and a fair amount of blood; he could feel something tear when Steve fucked roughly into him. Despite everything, even through the pain, Bucky was hard—his cock bobbed, dripping onto the floor as Steve thrust into his abused hole. The pleasure nauseated him; he'd already come at least twice while the faceless goons were fucking him, but the way Steve was going, he'd probably come again while Steve was still fucking him—

Probably he wouldn't be able to, without some other stimulation—he'd be pushing back onto Steve's dick, helpless and needy, and Steve would say, like it was an inconvenience, Oh, you need help? and Bucky would say _please, please_ until Steve reached around and squeezed his cock, hard enough that it hurt like he was being set on fire, and he'd choke on a strangled shout as Steve twisted his hand ruthlessly and Bucky shot all over the floor again—

“Well, Captain America’s not fucking you,” Steve said. “He wouldn’t want to put his dick in you anyway. You know, I could get VD that way,” he said, sounding all prim and particular. “It’s science.”

“You can’t get VD,” Bucky scoffed.

“Me, or Captain America?”

“Just get on with it already.”

“I’ve got other options,” Steve said. “I’m in the outfit, right? I’ve got the gloves on, so I can stick my fingers in your ass like you want, at least.”

“The red leather gloves? Why would you be wearing those?”

“Quit the backtalk while I’m fucking you,” said Steve. “That’s the problem, they didn’t know how to use you properly. HYDRA used you like a blunt instrument. No precision at all. Fucking shame. Did they use your mouth?”

Bucky shook his head. “Afraid I’d bite their dicks off if they tried.”

“Well, their loss,” Steve said. “Talk about showing off for real. Anyway, I’d have you suck me, then.”

He shifted a little—it wasn’t like Bucky couldn’t see the way he was tenting his pants, but he was more than accustomed to Steve’s hair trigger. “Hey, don’t _stop_ ,” Bucky said. “You’re supposed to be fucking me.”

“It’s not like you vanished just because I wasn’t talking constantly,” Steve said. His hand twitched, like he was going to press it to his erection, but he didn’t move. “Even when a thing isn’t being used for its purpose, it still exists. If I'm not using a lighter to set something on fire, it's still a lighter, even if I use it to throw at someone, or even if I don't use it for anything at all.”

"You could just keep it in your pocket," Bucky said.

"Yeah, that's right, I could," Steve said. "I could just keep you in my pocket and only take you out when I wanted to light things on fire."

“This is a pretty long suckjob,” said Bucky.

“Yeah, cause you won’t shut up and get me off,” Steve said. “But it wouldn’t have to take long, you know what to do. They’d all be watching, having to imagine what it’s like—since you never did that for them, only me. And I’d shoot off on your face.”

Bucky laughed. “And then you’d shoot them?”

“And then I’d shoot them,” Steve agreed. “And tie you up and take you home with me, and keep you in a room somewhere, so you could never escape.”

“I’d try to escape.”

“No,” Steve said, “you wouldn’t.”

Bucky shivered.

He hadn’t honestly been expecting Steve to go along with this sort of thing, but—Steve lived to defy expectations.

And he could picture that too: Steve, holding him in place and fucking into his throat, not letting up even when Bucky gagged and heaved, eyes streaming as he convulsed, trying to struggle against Steve's grip on his hair but only succeeding in getting Steve to push him deeper, taking Steve's cock all the way until Bucky's nose pressed up against his pubic hair and then he couldn't breathe at all, hands scrabbling helplessly at the open zipper of Steve's uniform as he choked on his own drool and Steve's cock forcing into him—Steve, not caring about how Bucky felt; Steve, focused only on using Bucky to get off—

“Hey,” Bucky said. “Now that you’ve tied me up and killed everyone and all—” He looked deliberately at Steve’s erection.

“Nah,” Steve said. “I already got off, remember?”

He rolled over on top of Bucky, covering him, and kissed his temple. Bucky went limp, trying to be something tactile and appealing. Steve laughed. “Perfect,” he said, then shifted to the edge of the bed and sat up. “Hey, I’m gonna make dinner. You want anything specific, Arabella?”

“Do weapons eat dinner?”

"No," Steve said. "But a weapon wouldn't tell me not to do something. I could do anything to a weapon."

That was better than he'd dared hope for. "Okay," Bucky said. "So why don't you?"

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: This is slut-shaming's bastard cousin, viz. Steve "shaming" Bucky for "letting" HYDRA rape/abuse him. They discuss (and Bucky imagines) a scene in which interrupts a HYDRA "party" in order to rape Bucky instead. Bucky imagines being forced to orgasm multiple times (something he's not comfortable with in the present day), and some minor genital torture. This isn't *just* a fantasy; it's very clearly a twist on something that actually happened. (Well, not the Steve part.) To be clear, this _is_ something Bucky agrees to—in fact, it's his idea in the first place—but I wanted to make sure the content is clear.
> 
> Notes: Arabella is from the 1935 movie "Captain Blood" (great title). Sheikhs were pretty popular stock villains in the 1930s. The "high-functioning corpse" line is courtesy of a friend.


End file.
